Isn't it Lovely
by Lady Kefka
Summary: Bruce Wayne loves Jerome like a dumpster fire. — At least that's what Jerome says. And he gets angry, unbearably, comically angry, when Bruce says otherwise. An AU scenario where Jerome has to deal with being actually loved and aided by none other than the wannabe hero he once sought to kill. And to love him in return... as far as that goes in his book.


_Isn't it lovely, all alone?_

 _Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_

 _Tear me to pieces, skin and bone_

 _Hello. Welcome home._

(Lovely – Billie Eilish ft. Khalid)

* * *

 **I. Bruce** Wayne loves Jerome like a dumpster fire.

At least that's what Jerome says. And he gets angry, unbearably, comically angry, when Bruce says otherwise.

How _could_ one love a dumpster fire, you might ask. Jerome doesn't know. And because he doesn't know why Bruce loves him either, he deems it the perfect phrase to describe this sickening twist in their unorthodoxe relationship. Which, of course, Bruce strongly disagrees to.

You see, Bruce has that terrible habit of disagreeing with nearly everything Jerome says or does, no matter the context. It's become an impulse, really; like swimming back to the water surface when the air in your lungs comes to an urgent close and your chest heaves in fire. You just _have_ to get up; otherwise, you'll drown and serve as Fish & Chips for the creatures lurking in the dark.

It only makes Jerome want to kill him a little more often, naturally. And it makes him want to be loved by him _even more,_ as strange as that is.

For that is the crux of his existence: To want what he can't have. Then, to get it. And then, when he's got it right there, standing in front of him, reaching, calling his name, to long for nothing else but to break it apart until it flees his mouth and gaze to the other side of the earth.

Only then he has that one reason he needs to destroy it in earnest. Because it wanted him; and because it doesn't want him anymore.

 **II. Jerome** knows himself; or at least, he knows _parts_ of himself; and those parts he knows of are not made for a durable kind of love: ridiculous enough they can feel love at all.

Even if, Jerome has a completely different definition of _love_ than the one shown in tearjerker movies and couples boating down the Louvre. For him, love is a struggle, a gutter, a pain; he who loves shreds the other to bits until they both lie on the ground, bleeding, exhausted and unchangebly torn.

Love is a war declaration and tear gas grenades in the trenches. Love is this one heavenly minute before death when your heartbeat bounces in your ears like gong strokes and the darkness rams its dull teeth into your blurring vision.

Love is the numbness that someone buried in snow feels once the cold takes what is rightfully theirs. It is the exuberant heat that follows shortly after, setting the body on fire from within until any nerves remaining die as well.

Love is everything. Everything but pleasant, appollonian or peaceful in Jerome's book.

And if he had to choose between sharing this kind of love with Bruce Wayne or being offered a connection with someone he'd never be afraid of losing (to), he'd agree to the second option only to stab this person at first sight, returning to the _has-been-bat_ on feet kissed in blood.

You can't teach an old dog new tricks, they say. But as much as Jerome adores tricks, this isn't one of them. He's just a dog that isn't fond of wearing a stranger's leash.

 **III. When** Jerome says he can't love, he means he can't love _LIKE THEM_. The normal people, the sycophants, the bank guards in their fancy offices, squeezing their obese asses into the upholstery of their swivel chairs. He knows the laws of human nature and throws them overboard without even meaning to wave goodbye. He'd rather prefer the rutting behaviour found in the animal kingdom since there desire can't be faked. Desire just _exists_. Desire _claims_.

The black widow grasps this concept well enough: What they crave, they devour, eat it up into nothing. And Bruce is starting to look all the more appetizing each day he steps out of the shower, tangles himself out of the sheets in the morning or perforates the shoulder of a cop targeting Jerome with a crossbow arrow.

Jerome knows it won't be long before this hunger gets the upper hand and he'll take out the knife for a slice or two. It's an inkling attached to him like a priest to his rosary. There is no shrine he'd kneel in front of, but he doesn't have to be dependant on God to allow it become his very own prayer, his protection, his necessity.

As long as he kills Bruce, he's in control. The control of wielding unrestrained chaos and agony over this world that can't laugh at his jokes. He's been kept from this control so often in his life, he doesn't want to lose it again. He wants to be free.

 _(_ _He doesn't want to lose_ ** _him_** _, but most times that's an entirely different problem._ _)_

 **IV. Days** and weeks go by, the sturdy mammoth of routine creeping in. Bombs on Monday, bank heists on Thursday. Saturdays are for amusement parks, sundays for all the sleep they failed to get during the week, a tango in bed slipped in between. Nights span over them like trapping nets and they wake up by noon, hopelessly entangled within each other and always hungry.

Hungry.

 **V. The** seasons change. Leaves sprout, colour and pave the ground with their dried up corpses. Bruce lays roses on his parents' grave, acknowledging the narcissi that stand in an elegant, long-necked vase on its edge.

The petals shimmer wet with waterdrops even though no rain has fallen since Thursday. They must have been tended to mere hours ago. A thin smile sews into the corners of his mouth, full of affection and a never-ending sadness.

Jerome watches him side-eyed and shoves his fists into his jacket pockets. Leaving him to his grief, he travels down the path they've come from. He stamps so hard on the gravel the crunch could've easily woken the dead themselves.

Gravestones surround him like chipped teeth. It reminds him of Master Geppetto, paddling rounds in the whale's mouth with a flickering candle and the loss of his puppet son encloaked in his heart, clear and aching. How much did these resting spots cost? Much more than a wooden child ever would, he bets, and he would be right.

The polished stones are engraved with names of old fame and prestige, gold-plated, flanked by chubby angel statues and the finest scripture. The cemetery is built on a flat, wide plain, one or two hills popping up here and there, but the rich of the city have attended to make gargoyles act as corner pillars in their brooding crouch, strictly dividing the areas in which the graves are placed. The rich lie with the rich, the middle class corrodes among its peers, gathered under trampled grass, bugs and mud. The vagrants and bums rot outside the pearly gates near the curbstone or are cremated and shuffled into an anonymous grave, mingling within an ashen flood.

It's an irony that cannot be mastered with reason. The only ones seeing any kind of sense are money and the ones spending it. Only in Gotham, people remain as different in death as they've been in life.

And Bruce is one of them. Has been. Born boy billionaire by day, neatly tucked into the armored suit of a raging vigilante at night.

It didn't last long: he gave it all up. The heroism, the parties, the butler. And what for? _Him?_ A self-certified psychopath with no valuable tendencies or resources whatsoever? Who thinks popcorn drowned in caramel is a feast and the best joke ever made is the fact that he died when he least expected it – but when he came back and wanted to die anew, prepared and heading to a grande finale, _he wasn't fucking able to_?

Jerome wants to put his head back and laugh, but the annoying cramp in his chest locks into one of his lung wings and keeps him from making any sound at all. His widened eyes roll up to the drab sky above, his nails cutting into his palms, a grin on his mouth.

He whispers to himself: "Today is the day. Today I kill Bruce Wayne." And he looks forward to it like a child planning his birthday, drunk with the adrenaline of the thought alone. He doesn't realize the lump bulging in his throat. He doesn't decipher the inertia of his flesh when he imagines waking up in an empty bed again.

Someone calls his name and Jerome snaps out of his artificial euphoria. He blinks, rashly turning his head.

Bruce's steps are soft and pondering as he walks up to him. The foothills of his cloak waver around his knees. He still has this miserable expression Jerome can't stand, but he can bear the concern translating in his gaze even less. His fingertips tingle, ready to grasp and scratch it out of his eyes. He stands motionless till Bruce reaches his side, body of marble and magnet at once. He tilts his head, followed by the slight raise of dense brows.

„Is something wrong? You seem unwell."

 _Unwell_. Pretentious nutsack with his do-gooder manners. Jerome's _pissed_ that's what he is and Bruce is highly aware of it.

 _You're the reason I'm not buried here and nibbled at by maggots_ he thinks. _I still wander the earth because of your bullshit. You did this to me. You alone. I should_ ** _skin_** _you._

Blue eyes, guarded yet open, look him over with worry. No one has ever looked at him like that and meant it, but Bruce surely didn't get the memo.

Jerome swallows, muscles tense, neck on fire. He focuses on his chin and that stupid black turtleneck collar as he cracks a truly embarrassing joke. Jokes are his forte. His whole existence is a joke.

Bruce grants him a weak smile in return. He is by no means breakable — he doesn't need the cowl to dislocate both of Jerome's wrists with the swiftness and grace of a cougar — but his lean shoulders are hunched in defeat and his hands wrap around his waist like he has trouble not falling apart now. The obit of his parents never ceases to get the best of him, as if it drained some of his own lifespan each time he survives it. Though Jerome couldn't care less about the days he killed his parents, the feeling's familiar.

He hooks an arm around Bruce and pulls him painfully close, forgetting he wanted to split his ribs open mere seconds ago. Instead, mumbled words get lost in dark brown curls and Bruce nods. Jerome leads him out of the cemetery for another year, returning them to the world of the living. Snow starts falling soon as the gates open, and dips Bruce's and Alfred's flowers in crystal-white powder.

They go and watch a movie later. _Titanic_ is offensively boring and Bruce can't stop arguing _they'd have both fit on the plank_ in the end, so Jerome busts the projector and they run off before one of the workers catches them in the act. It's not like they'd have paid admission to begin with.

Bruce doesn't let go of his hand while they flee the cinema as if in fear the clown would stay behind otherwise, and he continues to do so when they're heading to their hideout, the streets long cleaned of cops. Despite the increasing pressure of his fingers while passing Crime Alley, Jerome doesn't complain. He simply presses back as hard as he can, bones crunching bones in a melody so foreign yet close to their primal heart. There are other things to be afraid of than pain.

 **VI. So,** things turn out differently. He doesn't kill Bruce Wayne.

To be more precise, _something_ always seems to get in his way of killing Bruce Wayne.

Either the GCPD is on their tail, his nagger of a brother tries squeezing back into Bruce's and thus THEIR life or one of the other villains is raining on his parade. It is what it is and it can't be helped much apparently.

One day, Bruce is hit by Crane's fear gas - Jerome can't kill him while he screams for his mum and dad, that would be awfully predictable. He probably wouldn't even realize who killed him — and this thought doesn't sit well with Jerome 'Give me the full credit for my performance you measly cowards' Valeska.

Another time, Jerome is hypnotized by Jervis and forced to hit a brick wall with their car – not killing Bruce is self-explanatory here. It would be counterproductive to choke him when he's busy putting Jerome's broken arm in a splint and constantly reminds him to take his goddamn medication which he would forget on purpose otherwise since it tastes like mashed cockroaches.

Yet another time, Freeze gives them the frostbite of the century because they took some samples from his lab without asking permission first – okay, they likely deserved _that_ , but Jerome's still mad about it. He couldn't have killed anyone if he tried. For Astaire's sake, he was barely able to flip Sionis off while they had a meeting. Bruce, the pretty beast, barely contained his chuckle.

It seems the universe itself has conspired against him, and if one takes a closer look at the events his past gifted him with it never stopped.

It's in the middle of January when he gets solid proof of it.

Gotham's remained unsurprisingly cold. Even colder than the nights in the trailer when winter was freezing balls in Colorado and the door hung crooked in its hinges. The wind came through and painted ice flowers on the windowpane next to Jerome's lame excuse of a bed. They were his linchpin before he fell asleep, _when_ he fell asleep at all. They were so beautiful, he couldn't wait to scrape them off the glass in the morning. with his teeth.

The wind keeps him awake these days too. It pipes its route through the unstuffed cracks of their little _Ha-Hacidenda_ , an abandoned building near the outskirts of Gotham. Jerome has his arms curled around Bruce like a snake its mongoose and watches, nose to nose, as Bruce's breath forms small, calm clouds in the air. They softly blow against his lips in the meager replica of a kiss.

He's always freezing; not enough to be plagued by hypothermia, but his hands and feet are cold as the north pole no matter the weather. It doesn't bother Jerome in the slightest: since his resurrection his body has been running on hotter temperatures than before. In summer, Bruce is often close to sleeping in the bathtub to escape the clasp of his heatened limbs. Which, of course, leads to them both lying in the tub in the end because Jerome clearly doesn't see a reason why he should evaporate to steam and bone on his own.

He shifts, just an inch, and observes in cryptic awe how Bruce, even in slumber, notices the warmth sneaking away and stirs, frowning. Jerome grins so hard he's sure his old scars will reopen and let his face drape over the pillow. His pulse leaps into his damaged throat and he can't believe Bruce doesn't wake up from the harsh pounding.

Bruce sleeps like a log. A log with a scrunched up nose, though. Jerome drags him till their bodies are lined up chest to chest. If they could, they'd just merge into each other. His fingers lift and trail along the delicate framework of his clavicle, observing its steady rise and fall. He's laid bare, limbs slack and relaxed. (Jerome should be offended – Bruce's dozing next to a certified mass murderer after all). They had three hours of sleep at a max during the last few days so it isn't likely he'll wake up soon.

Killing him would be easier than ever.

He brushes his pale shoulder — perhaps too roughly, he still has trouble with gentle touch — and he envisions Bruce's drowsy eyes to open and look at him like he's his Mephistopheles run from hell.

He imagines them ask: "Are you alright?" as he gradually sinks a blade into the boy's chest.

Not: "Dammit, Jerome, I barely get two hours of rest from you."

Not: "Great. Who did you kill again, you useless son of a bitch? How much of a disappointment can you be?"

Not: "So, this is it then. You. Me. A knife. Are you happy now?"

Not: "I regret not having you drowned in the sink when you were a toddler", like his mother used to say, drunk off her ass and her bloodshot eyeballs lined with coke.

No. The concern in his ocean eyes would be genuine, each word accentuated by a lazy blink, his life poured out on the sheets.

Are. you. alright?

Jerome almost blinks back. A small sound closer to a whine than a word escapes Bruce's mouth but his lids stay closed and inert.

He chuckles to himself. His mind cooks up some cray-cray fantasies when left on its own, yet that isn't a disastrously new phenomenon to ponder about.

Alright? He isn't. The devil forbid, he'll never be.

He grabs Bruce's neck and pulls him into a shattering kiss. The boy opens his mouth in blindsided shock as he jolts awake, inviting his tongue in by accident like the stoic fool he is.

Given the circumstances of making out with a sleep-drugged Bruce Wayne in the dead of night, maybe being 'not alright' is the state Jerome can settle for at last.

 **VII. Sometimes,** the very moment Jerome shuts his eyes, he starts dreaming. Some of his dreams consist of bats, crowbars and robins in skeletal trees. The latter stop their song soon as they acknowledge his presence. He doesn't question their reaction nor them. He smacks his lips and ushers each to pass so he can get to the good stuff.

The good stuff used to be colorful variations of wrapping his hands around Bruce's swan neck and choke till his windpipe crumples like pan liner. It's a gorgeous sight while it lasts, the sounds he makes, the bulging eyes, the struggle and betrayal in his gaze. In these dreams, Bruce never has a chance of leaving Jerome's grip. He's fidgeting, survival instinct kicking in, but it all dies down to a twitch and a black tear running out the corner of his eye.

This time, the moment Bruce falls limp underneath him Jerome wakes up with a curse stuck between his teeth and sweat glistening on his brow. He turns his head so quickly it causes an audible crack reverberating through the room.

The former billionaire's face rests opposite him again, seemingly undamaged in the half-lit dark. Caught in unusual tension, Jerome reaches out, requiring proof if he as much as bruised the smooth skin with the roughened pads of his fingers earlier or did worse. All he finds are cooling cheeks and lips cracked raw from their kisses. The smallest peck, and they'd start bleeding again. Jerome still carries the taste in his mouth as he checks his breathing. The rhythm, well and undisturbed. He licks his lips and exhales a shuddering breath himself.

He untangles himself from Bruce and rolls over. He needs to get up, put some space between his murderous visions and the present before they find themselves on the same plane of reality. Wouldn't be the first time that happens without his consent.

He sways lightly once he stands, but the firm ground underneath keeps him balanced. On bare feet he pads towards the kitchen, sees the stack of dirty dishes in the sink accentuated by moonlight and spins on his heel. The balcony is the second best option. Who knows, fresh air might clear his cluttered mind long enough to go back to sleep.

He steps outside. They reside on the sixth floor, the wind a howling matador looking for a bull to lock horns with. Clutching the metal railing, frost bites his nails and a particulary cold breeze grazes his back. The scratches on his shoulder blades itch at the contact.

At any other time he'd stretch with a sigh and relish the burn. Now, however, he isn't in the mood to relish anything.

The hump of Gotham lies in the distance, a brooding skyline littered with skyscrapers, crowned by a roof of smog and star-strewn darkness. Blinking lights of passing cars and austere window panes flash his sight. He stares back, his blown pupils indifferently reflecting their grungy yellow hue.

Never, not in a million years, has he considered to surpress his nature. Or his urge to kill, which roughly amounts to the same thing.

Before Bruce, he had things straightened out with himself. He knew who he was, what he wanted to be, and what he would do once he had rammed that axe into his mother. He knew no one could stop him, regardless of how hard they tried. Pills, beatings, therapy, drugs, electroshocks – they only had him laugh louder, sharpen his vision and fuel his malice. He feared nothing, loved nothing, hated everything and everyone with an unfaltering passion, and laughed at those who didn't believe him because they were too frightened or blinded by the prospect he'd actually speak true this time.

The blonde psychiatrist in Arkham comes to his mind at the latter. His fingers curl into rust. He had met her right after the Rock Festival disaster, patched up in too many places, barely able to ball his right hand into a fist. A young thing, hungry for sensation and the staircase to fame by writing a book about the inexplicable wiring of Jerome 'Joker' Valeska's frontal lobe. She actually thought all his sweet-talk bore of genuine affection towards her. So yielding to each request she was, trading privileges for a single rose pressed between the pages of her journal, literally ate out of the palm of his hand in the end. Naive for a romance that never existed, he had her straitjacketed and locked in the solitary confinement cell the night he broke out. He turned a deaf ear to her cries, her tears indifferent to him as they rolled of her rouged cheeks.

Other thoughts crowded his mind that day. He had seen Bruce Wayne shake hands with Jeremiah on screen hours ago, announcing a _close cooperation_ in regard of the city's energy balance. All he could think about was if they had fucked already. If not, they'd be fucking soon. The telltale glint in Jeremiah's eyes behind the glasses he didn't need revealed the severity of his impatience, naturally unobserved by Bruce who turned his face to the camera instead to him. His winning billion-dollar-smile was illuminated by the spotlight for all of the city to see. Jerome couldn't stop staring at it till a commerical about online-dating websites blended in. Subtle hint, really.

Both brothers had always been eager to claim what they deemed theirs one way or another when they were young. Sometimes, they would make a game out of it. Gaining Bruce's undivided attention didn't differ much from this concept. And Jerome was a sore loser.

Of course, Jeremiah was the one to cheat every chance he got. He called it "strategy". Jerome called it a big load of bullcrap. With him locked in, Jeremiah prolly had continued to entrance Bruce with his soft-boy-act as he had done with their mother, Uncle Zack and the circus in general. He usually didn't discard a method as long as it proved successful.

Jerome would be damned if he let Jeremiah stuff Bruce's pretty head with lies about him too. Which meant he had to get free and haunt the streets before his wounds had fully healed.

The other times he'd come to Arkham afterwards, the psychatrist was gone, nowhere to be found or heard from again. Jerome barely remembered her face, even less her voice. Both transferred to a blur adding itself to the residual mess in his head that wouldn't sort itself out as long as he lived.

Her name was Harley – well, he _called_ her Harley because her normal name was too ordinary to swim on his tongue. Harley had been a toy as most were, and she had been quick to desert as most were meant to be. He had no desire in seeing her again. He hasn't now. All he knows is she'd have looked better with pigtails instead of the bun.

Jerome leans his elbows against the railing and buries his head in his numb hands, huffing out a hail of frustration. He won the game. Due to his own obsession and carelessness, Bruce Wayne has become more than a toy, his favorite toy even, and thus an entirely different matter to get rid of. What's even worse is how much he loathes the thought of actually committing this act of cruelty. He loathes to think he could feel a tint of regret afterwards. _He_ and _regret_. It's a wonder and a worry he can't laugh about it. He doesn't understand himself. Why should he diminish his fun for the sake of one stubborn dick that used to punch his lights out dressed like a goddamn furry?

Moreover, is he still in control? Can he possibly be? Or is control the price he must pay for keeping the b(r)at by his side?

From afar, he hears the cacophony of car horns granted by the traffic of a busy Saturday evening. Normally, Bruce should have been at some fancy party wearing an Armani suit instead of resting naked in his bed. He should have gathered with mighty bastards in small picked out groups, sip on tasteless champagne and passionately debate Gotham's future for which most of those present wouldn't turn a single penny.

And Jerome? He closes his eyes.

He'd have prepared the gas, of course. The gas, the bombs. And two gas masks.

Bruce isn't love-struck enough to be stupid. He's well aware of the curious looks Jerome gives him, how his teeth automatically seek breaking the skin around the pulse point he put the knife at during the benefit. There's no doubt he's seen the redhead throw knives in the air and practice aiming at the faded picture of him cutting through a red ribbon that marks the opening of an orphanage.

Still, he stays. Why? He could run to old Jeeves any time and be welcomed by a punch and open arms. A "teenage phase", an "early mid-life crisis", a "virus in the system" – the press would lick his feet for an interview, digging for these sweet juicy details. Stockholm Syndrome much, Mr. Wayne? What's it like to fuck a clown, Mr. Wayne? Was it any good? Did you use toys, a rubber chicken maybe? Did you cry?

He could, but he doesn't. He douses the dishes in the morning and scrubs them clean before they're off to _work_. He unfurls the construction plans of banks and labs and finds the most suitable route for their current personnel. He whips any of the villains who venture in their claimed territory without batting an eyelash and some of them actually buckle under his piercing eyes and sharp tongue, completely clueless they're ridden roughshod over by the former Batman. Still, this life ain't a cozy one, way below his standards.

As much as Jerome hates to say it, it remains an enigma to him.

...Urgh. Being reminded of Eddie was the last thing he wanted to accomplish here actually.

Turning away from the city, he steps back through the sliding door, not a bit wiser than before. He's half-way in when he spots puny ice flowers wriggle along its lower left corner. He stares at them. They are as beautiful as back when he saw them with smaller eyes. Now, died once, living twice, he compares their shade to Bruce's skin and finds them lacking.

He kneels down and breathes on the glass until they disappear, then goes inside.

 **VIII. Four** days after, Bruce gets shot in the stomach trying to shield Jerome from the bullet of an unlucky officer with an unerring aim. Jerome buries his head in his hands and point-blank cries.

His followers are stumped to say the least. _The clown cries? No way! Is he dying? For real this time?_

In a way, Jerome is. Because Bruce is bleeding over a workbench, red eating into dusted birch, his hands barely able to cover the wound and the doctor seems to be stuck in traffic or what other shady excuse he's been given to not set foot into their place. Everyone knows what awaits the one who fails saving the life of Valeska's _favorite volunteer_ – he's still calling him that from time to time with misplaced affection, as in _good ol' times_ , although they're far more than that now. They've become everything. Everything but pleasant, appollonian or peaceful.

Bruce Wayne loves Jerome like a dumpster fire.

That's what Jerome says. Because he isn't worth the dirt thrown upon his coffin, and he knows it. He doesn't nurture, doesn't shine, doesn't buy wedding rings, doesn't make anyone's life easier. The only warmth he gives is an atomic cloud frying the hands crazy enough to dare holding him gently, and he conducts them further into his radioactive core soon as their screams and his laughter richochet off the walls. He's always been like that. He's born from destruction, what other comfort have the cards of fate bestowed him with but that, doing everything in his mind to recreate the bland aperture of the familiarity of home?

Right now, nothing feels like home. 'Nothing' leaves him devastated. Bruce Wayne is bleeding to death and he isn't even the one responsible for it. And. it. _kills._ him.

He feels something tuck on his sleeve and wants to push it away like an annoying fly. Then the tucking gets stronger, and he looks up, shooting arrows of wrath out of his swollen eyes. God, he feels like the child dripping with snot and self-pity again, sitting on the steps of the trailer at the age of nine mourning his birth.

Bruce's eyes are soaked in pain his armor could've protected him from, but his grip hangs firmly on Jerome's sleeve and doesn't intend to let go. Paler than any make up could have made him he says something, but Jerome's attention sticks to the blood dripping out of the corner of his moving mouth, painting the half of a jittery smile on his skin. A roar blocks his ears, carries voices to him. The voices who've kept him company since Jeremiah left. Voices he used to be comforted by.

 _Kill him now._ they say, ringing through his skull like christmas bells, softer than satin. _Let him lie here or end his suffering and yours with it. Throw his body into the sea. Show them you don't care for nothing and no one. Give them the monster they worship you for._

 _Be –_

Jerome hisses, lips lifted like the chaps of a rabid rottweiler, the impression only intensified by his scars. The voices shy away as if they'd been bitten and Bruce faints, the last vowels of a confession drying on his red-stained lips. Jerome picks him up and heads to the warehouse's exit, kicking the door open, all the while spitting out a litany of curses and death threats to everyone and no one in particular.

The confused stares of the goons follow their boss and his cherished plaything getting swallowed by the night.

 **IX. Calling** in a favor by Oswald Cobblepot isn't exactly on Jerome's top ten to-do list of favorite pastimes, but he endures Zsasz's toothy self-indulgent smirk without breaking his nose before he's ushered in, Bruce limp and heavy in his arms.

Oswald has the best underground surgeons under his thumb as well as on dial. Bruce once told him Jim Gordon wouldn't have made it last May after the Barrows shooting hadn't Oswald ordered his men to collect him and remove the bullet close to his heart. Jerome has no reason not to believe him. Everyone knows the Penguin has maintained a soft spot for the commissioner and vice versa. This becomes apparent the more effort both put into denying it when asked.

Jerome never cared to understand how Oswald could still be so disgustingly humane when he'd been through purgatory as much as any other villain in this city. In their case, however, this conditon promises to be useful.

As much as Oswald harbors an old grudge against Jerome for what he put him through in Arkham, he can't help but like Bruce. He's intelligent, outspoken and diplomatic if given the chance – rare traits working in unison for people in their ranks. Due to the occassional bitch battles between him and Nygma, Oswald has few alternatives to exchange ideas with like-minded individuals without starting a war over a spilled cup of tea.

He tenderly smoothes his hand over Bruce's sweaty curls as he flips open his phone and Jerome practically _snarls_ at him. All self-restraint aside, he hates when someone else touches Bruce, _especially_ when he's unconscious and can't defend himself. Oswald's hand retracts from the boy's forehead in a gesture of compliance, yet settles a few inches next to his ear instead, impatiently tapping on the starched oak plate while the ringing at the other end of the line continues. Jerome has to live with that. For now.

"I knew you'd be the death of him by one means or another", Oswald says while they wait. His tone's casual, yet fury carves his strained features. "You've tried often enough. Are congratulations in order?" Jerome snorts.

"I'm death to many. But if I want people dead, I usually don't have them stitched up, do I?" He rubs a stain from Bruce's pant leg, eyes trained on his erratically heaving chest. "Speaking of, how's Jimbo doing? A little crow told me he enjoyed your posh bedlinen last night. Egyptian cotton, wasn't it? This whole charade of spooning in the shadows must be reaaaally annoying." He leans closer, invading personal space. "Do you also use this outdated cliché of meeting up in shabby hotels when things have to go fast and dirty? You don't seem the kinda guy who gets off that quickly."

Oswald's mouth pinches to a thin line. His grip around the phone tenses.

"How dare—" A bass washed in cigar smoke blurts into his ear. He turns away and talks low into the speaker. Two minutes pass. Ending the call, he meets Jerome with a grim expression. The clown already has his hands up in defense.

„Relax, Ozzy. I'm not here to cause you trouble. You can stick your dick in a bowl of mayonnaise for all I care", he laughs, but his eyes are wide and unpredictable. "Save my man and I'll spare yours. Easy as that and I'll owe you one. Else –"

"The doctor'll arrive in five minutes and perform the operation in the west wing. Pardon me, but are those tear stains on your cheeks?"

Jerome freezes. Oswald looks at him, vain like a hawk. His cane knocks on the polished parquet, mockingly inviting him to answer.

Jerome crosses his arms and steps back from Bruce (though not much).

"Are ya nuts? Oh, wait, actually I wish you were. You'd be a lotta easier to deal with." He nods to the window on their left. The night brought a thunderstorm rattling the glass, nagging for attention. "It's RAINING outside, pengy poo. Better get your monocle checked when you can't even differ smudged foundation from crocodile tears."

Oswald isn't deterred by the taunt. Realization flashes in his calculating gaze, yielding to something dangerous. He tilts his peaked skull like a bird trying to make out the call of a long-estranged fellow.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" His voice adopts a sonorous, almost ingratiating tone. Eyes lingering on Bruce, his features soften. "To have something worth losing."

Jerome grabs him by the collar of his ridiculously expensive suit jacket and pushes him against the next ribbed wall. Before Oswald pulls out the blade he hides in his cane, Jerome sinks a punch under his ribcage, taking his breath away in the least romantic manner. The cane falls and rolls into a forsaken corner. Bruce twitches in their direction, his flesh waxen. Maybe he's caught up in a nightmare again. Jerome hopes it doesn't involve a tunnel built of light.

"Shut up or I'll make _you_ lose something. You'd look funnier limping with both legs, ya know?"

A gun's safety is being taken off in the background, but Oswald raises his hand, putting a hold to the man aiming it. Zsasz makes no move to lower the weapon, but he wavers, teeth gritted. If Jerome had found a moment to look over his shoulder, he could have enjoyed the pout on his blank face, but he's too busy pressing his fists against Oswald's skinny Adam's apple instead. His hands clutch Jerome's wrists, but don't try to pull them away.

"I'll never understand why he chose you." Even without sufficient air supply, Oswald manages to keep his snide. "I understand even less why he's staying. But it speaks for you that you brought him to me. The intention alone should ease Jim's worries."

"Tell anyone a word about tonight and you go sleep with the fishes", Jerome growls. A lump, _the_ lump has formed in his throat, tough and tasteless as ever.

Jim and worried. Why should he be? Bruce is in good hands. _His_ hands.

The gunshot wound is just a minor setback. It proves nothing.

Oswald looks at him unimpressed from under his pitch black lashes. His eyes are slightly dilated, binding two circles of clear blue autumn lakes. No fear reigns them though his cheeks turn a bluish-pale shade. He's been in this business for a long, long time, Jerome starts to understand why. He increases the pressure just to see him squirm. He doesn't.

"Always so hostile, _old friend_ ", Oswald croaks, driving his nails into Jerome's forearms without receiving a notable reaction. "And you still expect me to save your lover's life."

"He isn't –" Jerome bites his tongue and tastes metal on his teeth. Fuck. _Fuck_. He won't finish the sentence. He's trapped in silence. And hesitates.

Oswald furrows a brow. He looks him over with a seldom mixture of pity, concerning familiarity and frown. Despite his shoe tips hovering millimetres above the ground, the power structure of the situation seems to be on his side. Jerome hates it. Every muscle in his body is pulled tight with the effort not to break his neck. Yet.

"Jerome, I've been victim to this emotion myself one too many times", Oswald adds, distorting his thoughts, a flame rising behind his eyes. "I cursed it, I faked it, I froze it and dispayed it in my club like a cheap amusement attraction; then again, there were days I wouldn't have traded it for gold. I'd have given _my empire_ for it. The only difference between you and me is that I wasted so much time on the wrong person." His eyelids flutter. Bitter memories expose gouges and creases on his face, having Jerome stare up to his slowly receding hairline. Time gnaws him away. Pain does. All does.

"But Bruce... Bruce's cursed with a loyal heart. You're lucky in –"

Jerome loosens his grip and drops Oswald back on his feet as if he'd been spit at. The Penguin rubs his throat and gulps down sweet portions of air. Zsasz lowers his gun but doesn't leave, waiting behind them like a frugal reptile.

"Guess I am." Jerome says it rather to the room than the people inside it. He watches as Oswald leans against the edge of the table, collecting himself. Only the reddish marks on his neck tell of their smalltalk. Briefly, Jerome wonders how he'll explain them to Gordon. He wonders about Gordon's reaction. He'd probably get angry – he usually does.

The head of the police and the uncrowned king of Gotham. What a dysfunctional match. Bruce said after all what happened with Nygma and Lee, they'd deserve each other.

Watching Oswald grant him a sour look before he forces himself back into a proud posture, not unlike Jim's once he's demanding attention, maybe they do.

"We should get back to business. You said you'd owe me one." His voice is a steady rasp. He clears his throat, a side-glance to his cane. "Let's have a deal, beneficial for both sides: I won't spill the beans about you seeking my help to save the life of the person you adore. In return, you won't lay a pinkie on James personally nor terrorize half his districts for three months. He's been overworking himself lately and – Ah, good evening, Thomas. You're a little late."

A tall man with broad shoulders and a scuffed suitcase leaning against his shank hovers in the doorframe as if he had grown into it. Watching the scene in front of him unfold with a vacuous expression, his large, slender hands are busy soaking a cloth in transparent liquid. Jerome thinks he's seen him before, but can't quite recall where and when. The bottle, pocket-sized and of a dull, hopeless green, is more familiar. The pungent stench taking over the room screams of etorphine. Jerome tsks. Didn't smell that since his circus days. They had used it to restrain big animals. What the hell did this guy think would await him here?

As soon as they've become aware of his presence, the man shoves the prepared fabric into his coat pocket and steps forward.

"Good evening, Mr. Cobblepot. I hope I'm not disturbing anything?" he asks, approaching Bruce without waiting for the reply.

Jerome gives a laugh. "Nah; we've just finished with that little convo of ours here." He rearranges Oswald's tie, then walks up to the man, making them both stop in front of the motionless body. The man looks at him as expressionless as being covered from chin to forehead makes one out to be.

"I wasn't talking to you."

"You do now." A predatory grin stretches Jerome's lips. "Considering the stink, you must be _Doctor Love_. Let's see if you're any good." He clasps his hands behind his back and surrounds the man, inspecting him up close.

The doctor's a curious fellow to say the least. His head wraps in grey-mashed bandages and has two slits left for mouth and eyes, the latter of a steel blue reflecting apathy. His fawn trenchcoat, soaking wet from the rain, hangs sloppily down to his knees, adding to his dull demeanor. It reminds Jerome of a dummy stamped out of the ground **.** The corners of his mouth clamp down, both brows drawn in reluctance. He stops back in front of a zombie-like glare.

"You're kidding me, right?" he calls to Oswald. "Look at him! He looks like he's walked headfirst into a glass wall – I'd rather chop my – well, _someone's_ dick off than give Bruce into the hands of this mummy."

"Must I remind you that your scars distinguish you as an anomaly to society yourself?", Oswald replies sharply. "Thomas is a bit special in his appearance, but his surgical skills are a class of their own. Isn't that right, Thomas?"

Thomas turns to study his patient again, but Jerome steps in his way. He's smaller than the doc, but this doesn't keep him from staring him down.

"I can't prove my abilites to you if you won't let me", Thomas says. „Most doctors aquire physical access to their patient in order to make a diagnosis."

"How can I be sure you won't pull some shit? Snakes curl everywhere. I'd prefer to frisk you before you get any closer."

Jerome thinks he sees a sparkle in Thomas gaze then, but that could as well be the lightning's shine in his black pupils.

"Enough." Oswald sounds tired. He's got every right to be. "Jerome, if you want Bruce to live, let Thomas do his work. I assure you he's trustworthy as long as he gets paid."

Jerome hesitates still. Bruce's breathing has become shallow behind him. He senses his slowing pulse as if it beat under his own skin, and it makes his insides crawl.

He can either further the act or swallow his pride. He'd like to tell himself he has a choice, but there isn't one really. Not anymore.

Emitting a huff, he steps aside, arms crossed in front of his chest. The doc passes him close enough that he can smell the mustiness coming off him in laggard waves.

Thomas lifts the blood-curdled hem of Bruce's shirt and hums.

"He lost a lot of blood."

"No shit, Sherlock."

„The wound has been desinfected but slovenly secured", he continues, deliberately ignoring Jerome's comment. "I have to clean him up before I can look for the bullet, but I doubt it caught the visceral artery or so much as grazed the vital organs."

"And why do you DOUBT that? Aren't docs supposed to _know_ these things?"

"The internal hemorrhage caused in both cases would have either killed him already or given way to toxemia which in turn would've led to peritonitis. The latter is only overcome by those who, to a certain degree, don't mind the bloodloss and their intestinal contents being emptied into the abdominal cavity", Thomas says drily. He looks Jerome dead in the eye. "Do you want me to continue or waste enough time to observe it yourself, Mr. Valeska? I heard you've got a proficiency for inflicting pain – keep up this unnecessary quarrel and you might learn something new."

Jerome stays quiet for once.

Thomas looks around the room, searching, and gets stuck on Victor who has put his weapon away by now, but wasn't fast enough to leave when he had the chance.

"Zsasz, if I remember correctly? I'd be happy if you assisted me here." Victor pulls a face as if he'd been asked to eat slugs.

„Uhm, acting as a medic isn't in my job description." He looks to Oswald for help who painstakingly picks up his cane and uses it for further balance.

"Surely," Thomas intervenes, "you are able to carry my patient –"

"I carry him." Jerome rushes to Bruce and hauls him up. The sudden movement causes the wound to open anew and spill droplets on the carpet. Oswald lets out a heavy sigh. Thank god for Olga. Victor sighs too (in relief), and exits the room before another request can be made at him that doesn't involve torturing and killing people.

"Hush", Thomas says, although his narrowed eyes translate his disapproval of the boy's handling. "He's weakened but not beyond saving." Jerome has the mighty urge to punch him till he passes out, but now isn't the time.

"Fix him or you'll end up looking as handsome as me before you die", is all he says. Thomas just nods.

"Bring him to the west wing, second room to your left. Lay him down on the white tablecloth. I'll grab my utensils and meet you there."

Jerome goes and Thomas watches him melt with the half-lit darkness of the hall. He catches a last glance of him before he takes a sharp turn to the left, tilting his head ever so slightly, whispering something the unconscious Bruce can't possibly hear. The minute they're out of sight he throws a glare at Oswald who has seated himself in his armchair to relieve pressure on his leg.

"I'm sad to see you didn't take my advice and banned your more peculiar acquaintances from the room before I arrive." He opens his suitcase and takes out a scalpel, several forceps and hemostatic sponges. "The emotionally inclined merely complicate the procedure. I told you I wanted to talk to Bruce alone if you ever –"

"Their arrival wasn't planned", Oswald replies curtly and reaches for a half-filled wine glass. Thomas closes his fist around a syringe.

"Gordon's wasn't either. But back then you managed to obtain him alone with a snap, if only to have me get out the bullet", he presses.

"Jerome and Bruce have been inseparable for five months now. Trying to part them in a critical situation as this would prove suicidal for the ones responsible. I'm not suicidal." Oswald takes a long sip and grimaces. The wine's long stale. "I'd advise _you_ to prioritize saving his life for now since conversing with a corpse _might_ prove difficult. Afterwards, we can deliberate on opportunities to waylay him alone while I try keeping the ginger otherwise entertained. Would that suffice?" His eyes are cold and apodictic. Thomas pauses. His grip loosens.

"I… yes. I see the logic." Oswald raises the glass to him, then puts it down with a thump.

"I'm glad someone does. Now go."

Thomas does. Collecting his equipment, he heads off, already constructing the best treatment of how to take the bullet out in his mind. Bruce looks sick. Like a demon's eating him up from the inside. It has elicited a distinct pang in his chest he wasn't aware he could feel anymore.

"I'd have preferred us to reconvene under milder circumstances," he mumbles. No one hears him. No one should.

Putting on his surgical gloves with a slap echoing off the walls, he gets to work. No matter what Jerome says, the doctor's worth the money.

 **X. Three** hours later a patched up Bruce looks and sleeps like a dead man as Jerome wraps him up in a thin blanket and arranges his boneless form on the couch. He isn't fond of leaving him alone in this condition, but some business just can't be postponed.

Most of his henchmen are waiting in the warehouse as he left them behind; puppets, scroundels, ugly sheep; sometimes he believes the freedom not to think for themselves is one of the main reasons they constantly chum up to him. Bruce minds it; he doesn't. They need muscles, no wannabe Einsteins who plan mutinies like others arrange weddings.

He wants to make this visit a short one and puts on the smiling mask he's perfected over the years. It lulls them in, and their tension disappears as he starts speaking in his usual frilly sing-sang voice.

His feet direct him to the workbench Bruce was lying on earlier. The blood, though dried up to a small rusty-brown pool on the plate, calls to him. _The rich kid's no more_ , he tells them. _Didn't make it – that's one party pooper less on my list!_ Encouraging laughter echoes to his announcement, money being exchanged in the background. His grin splits so hard he resembles more shark than human being.

Bruce's calculations and foresight have given them all a regular flow of money over time. His caution ensured almost no one who would've otherwise been stupid enough to do so has been left behind or died in the heat of the moment. He was concerned about the wounded being cared for and he put everyone in a position where their abilities promised the greatest impact for the group.

 _And now look how they pay him back for what he's done. Cheering about his death. Oh, Bruce, if you could see them now. I wished I had a camera with me. Perhaps you wouldn't despise me as much for what I'm going to do._

 _Oh, what the hell am I saying? Despising me is one of your KINKS, ain't it? It should be._

He promises a bonus if they don't say a word about **_the mishap_** **.**

Febrile insurances follow, certain as the moon chases the sun. He raises his hands and they cheer. They are so much like children in this regard – crazed, obsessed, jabbering children.

He tells him he's got 'em a present, a little gesture for how much he values the trust between him and his crew. Directing them to a pile of packages encrusted with dust and a red ribbon in the right rear corner of the room, they don't realize him slip through the exit door at first.

He isn't far enough so the blast hits him between the shoulder blades like a vice.

There's shouting, then the windows burst out of their frames, glass splinters covering the ground. Jerome starts running and only slows down till he sees the flames' reflection painting the store windows on his way.

The hands on the clock have long turned past midnight which makes today a Monday. Mondays are bomb days. To Jerome, all days are bomb days, but since Bruce he's acquired a taste for diversity.

The warehouse becomes a stake, and on his way home, a string of fire trucks blaring him by, he remembers to get the type of tea Bruce likes so much. He knows he'll resent him for what he did, for obvious reasons. It causes them complications, it takes them time to hire a new group of lunatics that will trust and fear them enough to be partially efficient. Bruce still isn't fond of killing, he might never be. But his disappointment will pass, he always forgives Jerome in the end. He simply has to, Jerome thinks. He has to.

Whistling a song through his scarred lips, the clown sees the twilight licking red over crumbled plaster, Graffitti Writings and hotel entrances. He feels... great. He feels alive. He's got a spring in his step. Someone's waiting for him.

Yes, he is out of control. Who knows, maybe the boy _has become_ his control, on-off switch included. Maybe he was never meant to be the one in control of himself to begin with.

But at least he's got a new best joke in exchange.

He reaches their hideout before the sun has risen in its entirety. Its orange-golden rays break at the door like blistering wrought iron as he tears it open. For a moment he stops at the threshold, listening to the absolute, peaceful silence greeting him. Then, a demonic grin plastered across his features, he takes a deep breath.

"Brucie!" he calls high-pitched and storms the stairs. "Honey, wake up - I'm home!"


End file.
